


The Adventure Of The Hammersmith Wonder (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [108]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Big Gay Love Story, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Money, Social Anxiety, Telepathy, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 08:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Watson has to go to his room. A funeral parlour in a small Wiltshire town becomes the starting point for a vendetta by another 'man-child', for whom 'no' is an alien concept.





	The Adventure Of The Hammersmith Wonder (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedBlackWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedBlackWings/gifts).



> Because I know some people will ask, the De'Aths in this story were not related to Lord De'Ath, whose murderous valet provided one of our cases during our time Abroad.

Foreword: Looking back on the events of this story from several decades on, I am minded once again to correct what seems to be an increasing perception that the Victorians were frigid and strait-laced when it came to sexual matters. There was, unlike today, an understanding that what went on behind closed doors was the matter of those it went on between, and that provided they did not flaunt such goings-on in public, then society generally knew well enough not to ask. I would draw comparisons with certain high society people of the current decade, the 1930s, especially our (thankfully) departed King Edward VIII, who saw nothing wrong in openly sleeping with the wives of other men. I am sure that many people in those far-off days knew or guessed that what Sherlock and I had was more than friendship, even if then it had not yet developed into what it later became. But one just did not ask.

+~+~+

Our brief (and bloody) excursion into Drake's county had enabled me to put aside my emotions arising from the discovery that, barring a mathematical miracle, I had a son. Normally my way of dealing with anything that came anywhere near 'feelings' was to run as fast and as far as possible in the other direction. 

My friend, of course, had other ideas. 

Two days after our return from Devonshire, he told me that he had invited Mrs. Warburton to Baker Street that very afternoon. I was initially annoyed, but I swiftly saw his point. Matters had to be resolved so that we could both get on with our lives, and do what was right for our son. It was a short but productive meeting; I was able to allay any fears she might have entertained about my interfering in her son's upbringing, and we agreed that I should be allowed to place some money in a bank account for Ben's birthday and Christmas each year, to be accessible by him after his twenty-first birthday. When she gave him that money, she would (whatever her husband said on the matter) tell him the whole truth, and let the boy decide how to proceed from there. She left - as things turned out, I never saw her again - but I felt infinitely happier that things were now cleared up between us, even if I felt a tinge of regret for the 'loss' of my son.

+~+~+

I was not sulking. I was not!

All right then, I was. But I had good reason

There was a faint knock on my door, and Sherlock’s voice called out my name. I could hear the caution in that voice, even through the door. I sighed in a put-upon manner, collected myself, and went to open it. He smiled a little nervously at me, and ushered me over to my usual table.

The reason for my enforced internal exile sat in the famous fireside chair, still looking as if she would bolt at any minute. Miss Mortimeria De'Ath was about thirty years of age, and wearing a horrible mauve dress that may have briefly been fashionable some æons ago. Very, very briefly. She had been such a complete nervous wreck upon her arrival nearly an hour before that Sherlock had suggested that I put down my notepad and adjourn to my room, to let him calm her down. Even his usual magic had taken its time, though the lady now had a determined air about her, as if resolved to say her piece, despite the presence of two Men in the room.

“Doctor Watson’s notes are of great import in all my cases”, Sherlock said gravely, possibly stretching the truth a smidgeon. “They allow me to review what has been told to me, and maybe see things that I might have missed during my questioning. Now, Miss De'Ath, we have discussed your case, and in light of all you have told me, I think it important that I run through everything to make sure that I have all the facts. Is that acceptable?”

Good Lord, she simpered at him! Sat there trembling like a leaf in December, and she still simpered at him. How I did not roll my eyes was a miracle of the first order!

“An important fact in this case appears to be your particular and quite fascinating ancestry”, Sherlock began (I was sure I caught a knowing smirk in there somewhere!). “Your great-uncle, the late Mr. Stephen Mortimer, was immensely rich, and also a little eccentric, if I may be so bold. He had developed a great love for his family name, and it worried him that he had neither children nor siblings alive to continue it. Al he had was one niece, your late mother Mary.”

“Your uncle died shortly after your mother’s engagement, and it was discovered that he had left a very peculiar will. A large sum of money was to be set aside for any children from your mother’s marriage who bore the name ‘Mortimer’. Naturally your father, a Mr. Quentin Jones, did not wish to forfeit the right of his children bearing his surname, but since Mortimer can fortuitously be used as a Christian name, they decided that that was what they would do. Your mother duly gave birth to three sons, but sadly two died in infancy, leaving only your elder brother, Mortimer John.”

“Your uncle's will provided large sums for the first three children, regardless of.... gender“ (I considered that, had he used the other word, the one with three letters, she may well have run screaming from the room!). “This was to prove important, as your mother's next birth, which most sadly claimed her life, was of twins, a girl – your good self – and a boy. Your father, very sagely, took further legal advice, and hence you became Mortimeria Mary, whilst your younger brother became Mortimer James, known to the family as Jamie.”

I wondered if the ‘large sum’ had been enough to account for being saddled with such God-awful names. Sherlock shot me another warning look, and I blushed.

“Since the money did not come to his offspring until they had reached a set age, your father found the expense of raising three children on his own very heavy”, Sherlock said. “So when your Uncle Jacob offered to raise your brother Jamie, your father accepted. It has been an arrangement that has benefited both parties, although as your uncle lives on the Norfolk coast, you rarely see your twin, which is a pity.”

“Jamie is.....”

She stopped and stared at us, apparently appealing for one of us to finish her sentence. Since Sherlock's mind-reading abilities apparently extended only to myself, neither of us could. There was an awkward pause.

“Different!” she finished.

What was he? A Martian?

“Neither you nor Jamie have married as yet”, Sherlock said, steering round whatever minefield was there. “His share of your uncle's estate is administered by his uncle and patron, whilst following the death of your father two years ago, yours are administered by your elder brother, whom you have hitherto trusted to do right by you. However, certain actions that he has undertaken of late have given you cause for concern, which is why you have come to me.”

“Precisely!” she burst out. “Morty has always been extremely careful with money, yet recently he has made several trips to London, and always comes back looking exceptionally pleased with himself.”

Sherlock kindly forbore to point out that she herself had come to the English capital.

“Have you discussed these concerns with your younger brother?” he inquired.

“Dear Jamie thinks that Morty is not always wise”, she said carefully. “And he.... well, it is different for Men. Great-Uncle Stephen, you see, thought that the eldest son and heir was everything. Morty was allowed access to his funds on his twenty-first birthday, which happened just before Father passed away, whereas Jamie and I both have to wait until we are full thirty years of age. That is over seven years away!”

She was clearly annoyed at that difference in treatment.With some justification, I thought.

“And your elder brother has always paid your allowance on time?” Sherlock asked.

“Always”, she said. “It is important for dear Jamie, who values his independence possibly a little too much, and he has recently....um.... acquired a new.... 'friend'.”

I began to have an inkling as to the direction in which this conversation was heading. Sherlock pressed his long fingers together, and stared at our visitor.

“You see”, she said, twisting her hands anxiously, “Jamie is living with.... a Man!”

And there we had it.

+~+~+

One copiously large sherry later, Miss De'Ath was able to continue. 

“Morty and I live in the Wiltshire town of Devizes”, she said. “About a year ago, he began to court a local lady, a Miss Bradley. She is the youngest daughter of the local member of parliament, who is quite rich, so it would have been a good match. Except....”

She stopped again, and blushed. I resisted the urge to glance at my watch. This was going to take forever!

“Six months back, Jamie visited us”, she said. “It was all quite, quite ghastly. Miss Bradley developed.... an Affection for him and... well, of course he did not return her advances. Morty took it very badly, and blamed Jamie for the whole thing, which was quite in error. It was all the fault of that Faithless Harridan!”

I had a sudden image of a murderous Miss De'Ath, in her mauve dress, sticking a dagger into the woman whom she disliked. I coughed, and reached for a glass of water. Sherlock looked at me suspiciously, and I avoided eye-contact with him until he turned back to our client.

“So, your brothers fell out”, Sherlock said patiently. “What happened next, pray?”

She drew a deep breath. This had to be bad.

“Jamie cut short his stay with us”, she said, “but unfortunately Uncle Jacob had been expecting him to be away for at least three months, and had taken the opportunity to visit some friends for a long holiday in the Far North of Scotland. His house was completely shut up, so Jamie had nowhere to go. Fortunately one of my great-uncle's properties was empty, a small house in the village of Hammersmith, not far from here, so he went there. And it was whilst he was there that he.... he developed an... an Attachment to the local blacksmith, a Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring.”

She finished her second sherry. I began to wonder if she might have to helped downstairs. Or worse, all the way to the station. Well, she could get there under her own steam!

Sherlock spared me a Look. It looked like I was going with her after all.

“A blacksmith called Vulcan”, he said, keeping a remarkably straight face. “How unusual.”

“Yes”, she said. “The tallest man you ever did see, full seven foot in his boots. I came via their house on the way here, and that was the first time that I saw him.”

Sherlock stared at her. Of course it worked.

“I do not think that Morty was very happy about how Matters resolved themselves”, she admitted breathlessly. “He has not seen anyone since, except of course for that awful Sellers Female over at Larkwhistle Farm.”

I had not known that the word ‘Female’ could be used so disparagingly.

“I presume that, despite his inheritance, your older brother has some sort of employment?” Sherlock asked.

To my surprise, she blushed.

“He runs Father's funeral parlour in town, she said, looking everywhere but at either of us. “We both live above it. He has renamed it.... “De'Ath’s Door”.”

My eyes watered with the effort of not laughing. That was seriously bad. Sherlock shot me yet another warning look before turning back to our visitor.

“Your case sounds quite intriguing, Miss De'Ath”, he told our guest. “I am inclined to accept it. If you leave us a card with your address in Devizes, we shall forward you information as soon as we have it.”

+~+~+

“Regretfully, I shall have to employ the offices of my brother”, Sherlock said with a sigh, once I had seen a slightly tottering Miss De'Ath into a cab and paid her fare to the station. “Doubtless he will want his pound of flesh in return.”

“I am sure that you can do a Portia, and outwit him when he tries”, I said reassuringly.

He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“As I remember”, he said slowly, “Portia was a woman disguised as an man.”

“I did not mean....” I spluttered, before I caught the twinkle in his blue eyes. The bastard was teasing me, damn him! I pouted.

+~+~+

“Bacchus has his uses”, Sherlock said later as he looked over some files that the lounge-lizard had, thankfully, sent round rather then brought in person. On noting my eye-roll he added, “despite appearances. I rather suspected that Mr. De'Ath’s recent trips to London have taken him to his brother's house, and I would like to know more before we go marching in. Especially when someone is a very solid seven foot tall.”

“Are we going to Hammersmith to see this wonder?” I yawned. My patients had been more trying than usual these past few days. I silently thanked the Lord that people had to pay for the privilege of imagining that they had some rare ailment, otherwise I would have been rushed off my feet.

“Three days' time”, Sherlock said. “I thought you might appreciate a day of rest before we went. You have been looking quite tired these past few days.”

That was considerate of him, I thought. It was actually quite nice being in Baker Street after a strenuous day out, with my friend, a warm fire and the prospect of dinner. Few things could be better, really.

“I ordered a pie from the bakery up the road”, Sherlock said casually. “I know it is only bought from a shop, but I thought that you would appreciate it after your recent travails.”

I smiled at him. Yes, things were good right now.

+~+~+

It was another three days before we went to see the Hammersmith smith, which again seemed an unusual extra delay, although I supposed that Sherlock knew what he was doing. But I will admit that I was a little surprised that he arranged to meet with the man at a fairly good quality hotel not far from his smithy.

I have to say that, of all the unusual couples that I have seen in my time, Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring and Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath took the prize by some distance. The massive blacksmith was indeed a very solid seven foot tall, not willowy or unsure of himself as so many overly tall people tended to be, but an impressive lump of solid muscle. I had no doubt that, if he were so minded and Sherlock had not been there, he could probably have beaten me to a pulp without so much as breaking a sweat. And then buried my body afterwards. Mr. De'Ath was of average height, but was dwarfed by his huge companion.

Introductions were made, and Sherlock suggested that we adjourn to the restaurant, where a light meal was served. Both men were clearly nervous and sat very close together, their hands touching.

“Why is your business called 'Vigor's'?” Sherlock asked. “Your own name was surely highly suitable for that of a blacksmith?”

The Goliath looked at him uncertainly, and Mr. De'Ath placed a reassuring hand on his muscled arm.

“There was already a blacksmith using the name down in Fulham, sir”, he rumbled, “and we decided not to risk confusion.”

How could anyone confuse that, I wondered.

“Tell me about your brother, Mr. De'Ath”, Sherlock said. The smaller man blushed, and I tensed as the behemoth next to him took his hand and glared at us both.

“None of your business!” he snapped.

“If you wish my help in remedying the situation, then it becomes my business”, Sherlock said firmly. “Come. All I ask is the truth.”

The two looked at each other, then Mr. De'Ath whispered something to his huge friend, who relaxed a little. 

“I met Vul the first day I was here”, the smaller man smiled. “All those silly romance novels about love at first sight – well, I used to laugh at them too, but it was true. I saw him coming home from work, and I was lost. I could have tried to approach him, but I was so nervous that I managed to fall down the stairs outside the house. He came to help me, and.... that was that.”

“Tell me about what has gone wrong in recent times”, Sherlock said.

Both men stared hard at him.

“How do you know about that, Mr. Holmes?” the smith said, and there was an angry note to his voice. I resisted the urge to shift my seat backwards.

“In my line of work”, Sherlock said, “One quickly develops an art of understanding certain types of human behaviour. Your sister, Mr. De'Ath, came and spoke to me about her concerns about your elder brother, and I have to say that I think she is quite right to be concerned. Further inquiries confirmed to me that he was indeed the sort of person never to forgive any slight, no matter how incorrect he might be in the perception of such, and that he had made several trips to this area as of late, yet had never seen you in person. That in turn led me to inquire into his dealings, with the result that I am sure you both now know.”

Mr. De'Ath detached himself from his giant partner and took his hand before resuming.

“A short while back, the chance to buy Vul’s shop came up”, he said. “We had managed to save some money, but we had to take out three loans to afford it. It seemed like a good move at the time; the business has gone from strength to strength, and we managed to pay off the smallest loan recently.”

He hesitated.

“Then your elder brother managed to 'buy out' the remaining loans”, Sherlock said. The smaller man sighed unhappily. 

“Three weeks ago he came into the smithy, and announced that he was calling those loans in once the paperwork had gone through”, he said. “Vul will be ruined!”

“I will see that man at the bottom of the Thames before I let him hurt my Jamie!” the giant growled. This time I did shuffle backwards slightly, to my friend’s evident amusement.

“We must do our best to dissuade him, then”, he said.

“Dissuade Mr. Mortimer John De'Ath?” the smaller man said incredulously. “My brother has hunted me down across England, and is prepared to ruin me and the man I love to get his way. I cannot let him….”

“Then let me help you”, Sherlock said.

“How?” the huge man asked dubiously. Sherlock smirked.

“I have my methods”, he said. “First I will appeal to Mr. De'Ath’s better nature.”

“You’d have to find it first!” the giant scoffed. 

“Well, I do have a contingency plan as well”, Sherlock smiled. “But I always like to give people a chance to show their better side. If he chooses not to, then he will deserve all that happens as a result!”

We all looked at him in confusion.

+~+~+

Sherlock promised the odd couple that we would visit them in their smithy, not far from the hotel, once we had seen the villainous Mr. De'Ath. He duly arrived one hour later and, I have to say, he was everything that I had expected, up to and including the oily black moustache that, incredibly, he actually twirled whilst my friend talked. He smiled unpleasantly as my friend explained the situation, and offered to buy the loans off him.

“No”, he said firmly. “The transfer paperwork for the second loan will be complete in two weeks’ time – had the original holder had not been so damn inconsiderate as to go and die on me at precisely the wrong moment, it would already be done – and then I shall call in both debts. And that is an end to it.”

“And that is your final word on the matter?” Sherlock asked.

“It is”, the man said shortly. “Is that all, Mr. Holmes? I have a train to catch back to Wiltshire.”

Sherlock smiled at him, then stood up and walked over to the nearest table. He returned with a tall, sombre-looking man who, I could not help thinking, might have been another undertaker for Mr. De'Ath's business.

“This is Mr. Martin Fortinbras”, Sherlock said, introducing us all. “He is in charge of administering the late Mr. Stephen Mortimer's will.”

“That has all been decided”, Mr. De'Ath said shortly. “I have my portion, sir.”

Sherlock shook his head at him.

“If you had bothered to check all those wonderful investments”, he said, “you would have noticed that nearly all of them were locked away for periods of at least and often in excess of a decade. You see, sir, the late Mr. Stephen Mortimer may have been a little eccentric, but he was also a man of stern moral rectitude. He knew full well the temptations of a sudden amount of money on the human character, and added a secret clause to his will. That clause, I have to tell you, has now been triggered.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. De'Ath demanded, although I noticed how pale he had gone. 

“Your great-uncle left a powerful disincentive against your sort of behaviour”, Sherlock said with a smile. “His will clearly states – and Mr. Fortinbras has a copy for you, if you wish to examine it – that if any of the recipients of his _largesse_ were to indulge in any sharp practices, then not only do their flow of funds stop, but they must pay back all the moneys they have received thus far. Every. Last. Farthing.”

The man's face went pale, but he rallied.

“I have not been convicted of any crime”, he stated.

“Well, I did offer you the chance to do the decent thing”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately, and in the hearing of Mr. Fortinbras here, you chose not to. I must say...”

“I have changed my mind!” Mr. De'Ath almost shouted. “The debts. You said to bring them. Take the damn things!”

He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his pocket and threw them on the table. Sherlock looked slowly through them, and sighed.

“Well, I suppose that no crime was committed yet”, he conceded. “But I have to say, Mr. De'Ath, this will not do.”

The man turned even paler.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Sherlock produced a single sheet of paper, evidently some sort of legal document.

“You will also sign over full control of your brother's and sister's shares of the estates to your uncle, it to pass to his lawyers if anything happens to him”, Sherlock said firmly. “Although now I come to think about it, perhaps I am being a little too generous there....”

Mr. De'Ath was already signing the various documents, without even reading them.

“Are we done?” he asked nervously.

“For now”, Sherlock said. “But Mr. De'Ath... remember. I have many friends, and I shall ensure that one of them keeps a weather eye on your behaviour in future. Should you stray from the straight and narrow path that your uncle expected you to follow, you will not like what happens as a result. Good day.”

The man fled without saying goodbye. I grinned.

“That was lucky, the great-uncle's will being like that”, I said.

“I put that in for you”, he said, to my shock. “I know that you like that sort of thing.”

I gaped, as he handed a note to Mr. Fortinbras, who bowed and left.

“You... you.... you made it up!” I exclaimed.

“Of course”, he said. “But Mr. De'Ath has signed over the estate to his uncle, and his brother and sister will be free of his shadow from now on.”

“And the debts?” I asked.

“I shall follow the old English tradition, and allow Mr. Iden-Goring to pay them off by providing me with a horseshoe as payment for each”, he said. “It will be a nice little souvenir of this case.”

+~+~+

Mr. Mortimer John De'Ath evidently thought that leaving the country would somehow free him from Sherlock's watchful gaze, the poor foolish man, and emigrated to India before the year was out. His sister of the simpering looks and dreadful mauve dress took over his funeral business (and immediately renamed it!), then proceeded to make a very good job of running things. Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath is still living with his giant blacksmith, and indeed, we would see the mighty Vulcan again in a later case.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, there is the danger of someone going completely off the rails.


End file.
